


Venice hides away

by Isisshine



Category: Marco Polo (TV)
Genre: Jingim has too many questions, M/M, Marco has cero answers, but he has pretty eyes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 17:11:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10701438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isisshine/pseuds/Isisshine
Summary: “You are back, Latin.” The name burned in his lips and increased the distance between them even though neither of them moved an inch.“I am.” His demeanor was as unruly as those curls of his, and Jingim asked himself, once again, what it was that he wanted.Marco was still confused; his eyes, those alluring green eyes, betrayed him. He looked at the prince and he saw rage, he saw doubts, he saw an internal battle of questions that would never find an answer. Jingim looked at Marco and saw a foreigner of round eyes, saw the light hair and the broad back. Jingim looked at Marco and saw the answer to his inner war.[Jingim wanders through the hallways and wonders, wonders, wonders. Wonders about the Latin's eyes, wonders about the Latin himself, wonders about his desires.]





	Venice hides away

**Author's Note:**

> I am sorry. I know I spent like 500 words describing Marco's eyes from Jingim's perspective AAAAAAAH But, in other news, I haven't even revised this so......... it probably has a lot of mistakes! /hides face/ I AM SO SORRY, HOPE YOU ENJOY IT!

It was a lazy morning. He woke up between Sorga’s arms, warm and calm, and with the golden sheets threatening to fall on their side. A soft breeze played with the curtains of the room and let in rays of light, causing a theater of shadows in the corners of the room. Jingim let out a small sight out of his lips before getting up and leaving his bed and his wife behind. The floor was warm in the morning and his bare feet took him to the other side of the room, where he began to dress in absolute silence. The silk was soft against his skin, the fabric stroking his shoulders before he took the belt and placed it around the robe. Still on the bed, Sorga was starting to wake up. He hands caressed the empty bed, as if she was looking for him, and her body moved slightly as she opened her eyes. She blinked a couple of times, trying to get used to the light coming through the curtains, through the plays from the summer breeze. 

But Jingim was gone.

He walked the hallways with pride bearing on his shoulders, on top of the think robe. He marched upon the floor with the dignity of a thousand Khans. There was always a certain solemnity in his dark eyes, a certain arrogance in the way he clenched his mouth that was enough to show his superiority but not close to the conceit others could have shown. There was something on the way he looked ahead, directly and without avoiding it, that showed his judgment and resolution. It would have been easy to decide he had some. It would have been easy to state his mind was at ease; calm like the southern ponds. But his mind was far away from the south and its waters. His mind was far away from those hallways he went across. He walked them calmly, though, as we was walking away from Sorga and away from the desires he could not attest. He walked away from his wife and the life he had in that room, intimate and private. 

Maybe if he established a certain distance between that room and himself, he could forget what had happened in it the night before. He could forget how he spent the night, on top of his wife, that wasn’t his wife before his own eyes. How he un his fingers through her long, dark hair, and dreamed of light curls between his fingers. How he looked at the black eyes and imagined greened ones, foreign ones, staring back at him. How he stroked her neck, her shoulders, run his fingers upon her back, and he wanted to feel what wasn’t there. He wanted to feel someone who wasn’t she. Someone who wasn’t even there. 

“Prince Jingim.” It was one of his father’s soldiers who came across from him. He wore the spear on his right hand and Jingim followed the trace of the metal, without interest, as it leaned towards him, along with the solder’s bow. “Master Polo has arrived, at last.”  
Jingim stopped dead on his tracks, diverting his eyes, his deep dark eyes, towards the soldier. His gaze was serious and there was a thin gleam of arrogance, his pride showing in the way he rose his chin, letting his eyelids drop ever so slightly before he spoke.

“Why are you informing me?” He asked, and his voice was filled with disdain, as if the fact that the foreigner was back in his house was not only insignificant, but almost an insult. It was an affront that the soldier had considered it necessary to tell him of the return of his father’s pet. And he made sure to reflect that in those eyes, black as the night in the midst of a war. “Have you spoken to the Khan?” 

His voice softened, faintly, when mentioning his father, but the soldier did not notice, bowing once again as a sign of respect. Jingim stood calm, with a blink of what looked like boredom crossing his eyes briefly as he waited for the soldier’s response. 

“Yes, Prince.”

There was a second too long, where the soldier straightened after his bow and a question parted Jingim’s lips, wondering if he dared ask it. The spark of arrogance in his eyes faded slowly as he doubted, as he questioned himself, without diverting his gaze from the soldier, who waited patiently to be dismissed.

“Where is he?” he asked, and his voice seemed to be lifted along the hallway with power and authority. The soldier’s expression changed from respect to confusion, unsure as to whose whereabouts the prince was asking about. “The Latin,” he grew impatient.

“He is with the Khan.”

“Of course” he reprimanded himself for having to ask such an obvious question, before turning around with one last hiss. “You are dismissed.”

“Yes, Prince.”

He did not listen to the response from the soldier, busy as he was letting his legs take him to the room where the Khan sat, to the room where his father stood before everyone and everything and where he ruled his Khanate without mercy. Except for his damned pet. Jingim walked through the hallways once again and he let his anger clench his fists. He felt his nails digging in his skin and only that was able to distract his thoughts. His thoughts on that pale skin, on those messy curls, on those green eyes. He wanted to drown in the green of those eyes.

The doors opened to reveal his father, as usual, on the throne of the Khan. His concubine stood behind him, her thin hands on his head, her fingers on his skin, and Jingim wanted to throw up. He averted his eyes, looking for the Europa in the room, and finding only vast emptiness. Soldiers and a concubine were all that accompanied his father that afternoon.

“Son.” The voice of his father was thick and hoarse, it has a harshness to ir that only years of whispering secrets and screaming orders could accomplish. Jingim had the voice of a prince, but his father had the voice of a Khan. “What brings you here?”

“Forgive me, Father” he bowed, lightly, before stepping backwards, once. “It seems I was misinformed about the location of Hundred Eyes.” The lie fell from his lips without even contemplating it and he thanked internally and briefly the concubine for keeping his father so entertained he did not notice it.

“He must be training”

“Very well. My apologies for disturbing you.”

His father did not even bother to answer him with words. A soft gasp of air in the form of a grunt was all Jingim had as a reply. As usual, it was a rude growl. It was all as usual, but Jingim was still thinking of that damned green, too busy to place his uneasiness on his father and his bad manners. 

Instead, he walked the hallways again. He felt as is his life was fading between those walls, along those eternal hallways. And, at the same time, there was something on his chest, a restless storm that threatened to take over the rest of his body. There were nerves along his skim that seemed to crawl, to make him feel what he did not want. He did not want the foreigner in his house, much less in his bed. He did not want those unruly curls of his between his fingers, softly. He did not want his back under the palms of his hands, burning. He did not want those green eyes staring at him in the dark, shining. Judging. He did not want the Latin as he wanted his wifes. He could not want him.

Marco was in his room. Behind the doors that Jingim opened and closed behind him like he had the wind on his fingertips. He looked at Marco, who stared back at him with a question escaping through his eyes. Those damned green eyes. That green was the green of the grasslands in the north after the rain season. That was the green of the herbal tea his mother used to drink with him when he was a child. That was the green of the thorns the roses showed in their garden. That was the green of a foreigner, treacherous, wicked and enticing. 

“You are back, Latin.” The name burned in his lips and increased the distance between them even though neither of them moved an inch. 

“I am.” His demeanor was as unruly as those curls of his, and Jingim asked himself, once again, what it was that he wanted. 

Marco was still confused; his eyes, those alluring green eyes, betrayed him. He looked at the prince and he saw rage, he saw doubts, he saw an internal battle of questions that would never find an answer. Jingim looked at Marco and saw a foreigner of round eyes, saw the light hair and the broad back. Jingim looked at Marco and saw the answer to his inner war. 

There was a second of calm, a quiet instant of nothing in a vast sea of everything.

That was before the storm raged on, before Jingim crossed the distance between them and before he kissed him. 

His hands flew as well, as his whole body had done before, and one of them ended up tangled in the curls of the European, reaching the back of his neck in order to pull him closer, yearning to intensify the kiss. Marco’s lips were soft and his tongue was wet against his. He could feel the body of the Latin pressing against his, the hands of the other reaching for his back to close off any distance left between them. There was none, but he pressed him against his chest anyway. Marco moaned alongside the mouth of the prince, without breath, but didn’t pull away. He desired more, as did Jingim. The kiss was too intense, too furious, too quick and not long enough. When Jingim looked for air, feeling too far away from the lips of the European, he could see those damned green eyes again. He could see the northern grassland, the herbal tea, the rose’s thorns. 

He could almost see Venice in the eyes of Marco.


End file.
